


Staying Power

by TheNightComesDown



Category: Queen (Band), The Who (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Classic Rock, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: After an exhausting concert, John Deacon wants nothing more than a hot shower and a night to chill. His plans are interrupted by the announcement that bass legend John Entwistle of The Who has come to meet him.





	Staying Power

**Author's Note:**

> Weird little crossover fic, just because I love both Johns. Based on a few interviews I've seen, plus some feelings and concerns I felt might have come up for both guys during their time on tour.

As the crowd roared for a second encore, a sweat-soaked John Deacon passed his bass off to a member of the road crew and accepted a fresh towel in exchange. He rubbed the fabric over his face, mopping the beads of perspiration from his forehead and cheeks. Freddie bounded past him towards the dressing room, eager to see his boyfriend who was waiting there for him.

“Mr. Deacon,” one of the tour assistants called as he strode past. John took a deep breath and prepared to tell the young woman that he just wanted to get back to the hotel, and that he wasn’t interested in entertaining any groupies tonight. However, the expression of excitement on the assistant’s face made him curious. 

“Yes?” John asked, pasting a tired smile on his face. 

“Uh, once you’ve gotten cleaned up, there’s a fellow here who’d like a word, Mr. Deacon,” she said, passing her clipboard toward John. He squinted in the poor backstage lighting to read the name on the guest sign-in sheet, and as the assistant had expected, John’s eyes went wide. 

“Are you serious?” he inquired. “He’s here…and wants to meet me?” The assistant nodded and gestured with a tilt of her head towards one of the small backstage rooms. 

“He said he doesn’t mind waiting,” she replied. “I think he’s taking a look at some of the equipment in the meantime.” John’s mind began to race; he’d met plenty of famous musicians by now, but none so legendary as the man whose name he’d read off the assistant’s clipboard. 

“Tell him I’ll be out in 15,” John said firmly. “I’m _very_ interested in speaking with him.” The assistant nodded and adjusted her headset, then scurried off towards the other room to inform John’s guest that he would be available shortly. Roger and Brian, who had been observing the exchange curiously, sidled up beside their bandmate. 

“What was that all about, mate?” Roger questioned, watching with a smirk as the assistant’s short skirt swished around her thighs as she walked. John glanced down at the blonde drummer, who was nearly as sweaty as he had been a moment before. 

“Apparently, the bassist of _The Who_ is here, and wants to meet me,” John said, furrowing his eyebrows as if he still couldn’t believe it. Brian let out a low whistle and patted John on the back. 

“Entwistle’s here to see you, eh?” Brian grinned. “That’s brilliant, John. But why do you sound so surprised? It’s not like you’re some obscure bassist. _Of course_ he wants to meet you.” John appreciated his friend’s comment, but continued to harbour a shred of doubt. His confidence in himself and his abilities had grown exponentially in the 10 years since he’d first joined the band, but he still had moments where he felt as though he wasn’t as good as others told him he was. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” John nodded absentmindedly, now distracted by the strong scent of sweat lingering on his clothes. “We’re Queen. Of course he wants to meet me.” He said these words offhandedly, but his friends agreed; Queen _was_ special, and a lot of musicians greatly respected their work, not to mention their enormous fan following. Roger clapped a hand over John’s shoulder and wandered off towards the dressing room, hoping he could bum a smoke from Freddie or a wandering roadie. 

“Well, best get showered up, then,” Brian suggested. “Not that you don’t look alright. You’d be fine, but, uh…” John chuckled at his friend’s hesitation. 

“I’m a tad disgusting right now, Bri, I know,” he smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to walk up to a legend in my dirty clothes and shake his hand. I’ll shower.” Brian’s head bobbed up and down in a nod, sending a few dark curls tumbling forward into his eyes. 

“You’ll like him, John, I know you will,” Brian promised. If only John himself could be so sure! What if he met one of his musical idols and the man turned out to be an insufferable prat or a terrible bore – or worse – thought those things of John? 

* * * * * 

As he stepped into the room, John Deacon adjusted his slouching posture so he was at his full height. He wanted to make the best impression possible; he’d even brushed his teeth, and shaved for the second time that day. His hair had been blow-dried, he’d used a subtle aftershave, and he chose an outfit he hoped was nice enough: a pair of dark, tailored trousers, a long-sleeve collared shirt, and a slim tie. 

To John’s surprise, his guest had one of John’s own basses in his hands, with the strap slung over his shoulder. The instrument wasn’t plugged in, so the sound wasn’t amplified, but John could still hear the rapid-fire notes being plucked by none other than bass legend John Entwistle. The greying man looked up at John and smiled, tapping his hand gently on the guitar’s body. 

“S’a good guitar you’ve got here, Deacon,” he acknowledged, tilting the sunburst-finish StingRay so he could examine the face of it. “Don’t think I have one of these in my collection yet.” It was widely known in the music community that the bassist had a collection of over a hundred guitars at his country home. 

“I like it alright,” John shrugged, a crooked smile creeping across his lips as he extended a hand to his guest. “Thanks for coming to the show.” Entwistle’s hand was much larger than John’s, but was as calloused as his own from years of rubbing against the strings of his guitar. 

“Gonna ask what I thought of it?” 

“Depends on if you thought we were shit or not,” John chuckled. “We’ve had better days but I thought it went alright.” The corner of the older man’s mouth twinged upward; it was rare to meet a humble rock star, especially one as successful as John Deacon. 

“Have you got time to go out to the pub, or somewhere else, for an hour or two?” Entwistle rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. He dug a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt and pulled two out, placing one between his own lips and offering the other to John, who accepted gratefully. 

“That bad, huh?” John smirked. Admittedly, he was very tired, but this might be the only opportunity he’d have to spend time with one of the most incredible bassists in the industry. Without another moment’s thought, he gave Entwistle his decision: “I could make some time, yes.” 

“Grand,” the elder John hummed, lighting his cigarette. He inhaled deeply before removing it from his mouth, and pointing down the hall with it. “If you’d like to join me, I’ve got my driver waiting in the back lane – I know the quiet way out.” Having been performing in venues around the UK, Europe, and America for nearly 2 decades, John suspected that Entwistle had all the secrets of these buildings down pat. He followed his companion down a winding back passage, and a few minutes later found himself standing outside the back of the theatre, where the man’s black ’67 Thunderbird awaited, as promised. 

“Fun fun fun,” John said cheerfully, quoting the famous Beach Boys song about the T-bird, an American convertible Entwistle must have had imported to the UK for his own use. 

“Still haven’t got my license because I’m certain to do something stupid with it,” Entwistle chuckled, holding out a hand to invite John into the vehicle. “I’d rather drink than drive.” John, having recently been forced to give up his license after being caught driving over the legal limit, understood completely. Alcohol use was rampant in the studio, onstage, and after shows, and it astounded him that many musicians had been able to hold onto their licenses. 

“Surprised your mate Pete is still allowed on the road,” John commented. “Heard he’s had a number of close calls.” Entwistle shook his head and rolled his eyes, knowing very well how close Pete had come to death on multiple occasions. It hadn’t been published in the press, thank God, but it was common knowledge amongst other musicians that Pete had been struggling with uncontrolled alcoholism for a number of years. As much as he loved his bandmate, the bassist had been worried for a long time now that he would wake up one morning to hear that Pete had overdone it and died in a fiery automobile accident, or choked on his own vomit in the night. 

“I may be a drunk, but I’ve had the good luck to keep it under control,” Entwistle told him. “’M not proud of it, but it’s a challenge to make it through some parts of this business without using some sort of substance.” His expression darkened as the memory of Keith, The Who’s late drummer, came to mind. “Some of us can use just enough to take the edge off, and others…” 

“I understand,” John spoke, relieving the older man from having to finish his sentence. He could hear the thickness in Entwistle’s voice as he thought of his best friend, who had passed only four years ago after an overdose on the pills that were meant to help control the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. Keith Moon was a drumming legend, but his status hadn’t been able to keep death at bay. 

The two sat in sombre silence in the backseat of the car until Entwistle’s driver pulled up in front of some hole-in-the-wall John had never been to before. The greying bassist reached over the front seat and squeezed his driver’s shoulder affectionately, a quiet thanks for his service. John opened his door and stepped onto the street, stomping on the butt of his third cigarette of the night before following his companion into the pub. 

“I like to come here because no one knows my name,” Entwistle explained, seating himself in a booth at the back of the pub. He chuckled softly, tilting his head to one side. “Not that I’m so cool anymore. It’s blokes like you who are getting recognized on the streets these days.” John’s cheeks flushed pink at the comment; he had always been rather embarrassed when people came up to him and asked for autographs, especially when he was out with his wife, or other friends who weren’t in the business. 

“You’ve got a new album out, though,” John protested. “I’d hardly say you’ve passed your time in the music scene.” Entwistle snorted and shook his head. 

“Bollocks,” he grunted. “We might still put out a decent single every now and again, but by the way things are going with Pete, we’ll be lucky to make it another two years.” He slapped his palm against the table and slipped back out of the booth, antsy for something to quench his thirst. “What’ll you have to drink, then, Deacon?” 

“You pick,” John shrugged. “A lager, maybe. Nothing too hard.” His companion nodded his approval before strolling over to the bar. Returning a minute with a foaming pint in each hand, Entwistle set one down in front of John, and raised his own in a toast to their meeting. 

“To the quiet ones.” 

* * * * * 

Four or five beers later, the two bassists were pleasantly buzzed. They had been chattering away about this and that for the better part of two hours; Deacon spoke of his three young children, and Entwistle of his own son, who was now in primary school. As the night wore on, though, their conversation became more introspective. 

“You’re not so much older than me,” John noted, taking a sip of his drink, “but you’re been at this longer than me. What advice would you give me, musically or otherwise?” Entwistle ran his index finger along the side of his nose as he thought, wanting to give his new friend a piece of wisdom, if he had any. 

“I suppose I’d tell you to be yourself,” the man rumbled, chewing at the inside of his lip as he thought. “We spent several years thinking we had to copy other successful groups – The Kinks, The Beatles, what have you – to be successful musicians. Really, once we allowed ourselves to make what we really wanted to, we found the success we had been searching for.” He glanced down at his own outfit, and used it as an example to further his point. 

“At the start, our managers wanted us to appeal to the Mods. They dressed us up in zoot suits, shirts with the collars buttoned up to our noses, that sort of thing. Now, though, I can wear what I really like. The three piece suits are what I like to have on during shows, but when I’m just out for a drink with the lads, I prefer this sort of thing.” His pointed boots had a thick, sturdy heel, and his leather jacket went well with a pair of dark wash denim jeans. He wore a collared shirt, unbuttoned just enough to give his spider necklace a place to rest against his skin. Entwistle tilted his head back to look at John’s own clothes. 

“My wife calls this the ‘sexy accountant’ look,” John laughed awkwardly, tugging at the upturned collar of his shirt. He’d slipped out of his jacket earlier in the night and hung it on the hook above the booth. “I guess I’d feel better in something more casual, with a bit of colour.” 

“How does your wife feel about you being on tour?” Entwistle wondered. “You said you’ve got three children, and might have more. That’s got to be a challenge to manage.” 

“Veronica hates it,” John admitted, loosening the knot of his tie. “She’s been supportive because she knows that this is what I’ve always wanted, but I know it’s terribly hard for her to be home alone with the children for months at a time.” He had felt an overwhelming guilt at being gone so often, especially when his bandmates seemed so comfortable with leaving their wives and children. “How do you do it, John?” 

“Not well,” Entwistle admitted, rubbing his thumb across the stubble on his chin. “Alison moved back into our place in Middlesex with our son, so I’m alone at Quarwood now.” His eyes were sad; he had acknowledged long ago that the breakup of his marriage was his own fault. “I never put in the time I should have with my family.” He lit another cigarette and allowed himself to sink into the calm that nicotine brought over him. “The affairs on tour didn’t help either. I could never hide that from her. I loved her too much to lie about it.” 

John averted his eyes, thinking about his own indiscretions while on tour. Technically, he’d never slept with another woman, but he had accepted ‘favours’ every now and again, when a groupie was willing, and he was exhausted or stressed. Brian and Roger had both openly cheated on their partners, so his own choices had never seemed so bad in comparison – but he still felt the guilt of having broken the vow of faithfulness he’d made to Veronica when they had married 6 years ago. 

“Do you still love her? Alison, I mean?” John asked. 

“Of course,” his friend said immediately, requiring no time to think. “She was my wife for more than a decade, and the mother of my child. I could never stop loving her.” 

“Do you want her back?” This question took Entwistle by surprise. He’d thought about it a million times, but Pete and Roger had never asked it. They’d both had their fair share of marriage troubles of their own to deal with. 

“I’m not in any place to ask for her back,” the elder John said finally. “Nothing will have changed, and that’s not fair to her. I’ll still want to tour, and I’ll still be lonely on tour – I’d still want the companionship she can’t provide.” 

“Is it hopeless for me, then, d’you think?” John asked miserably. “Am I going to lose Ronnie and the kids if I stick with this?” He gripped his pint glass hard, not caring about the possibility of it shattering in his hands. Would he even feel it? 

“Would you give it up, if she asked you to?” 

John didn’t need to think about this. 

“Yes, in a heartbeat,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’d do anything for her. She’s my best friend.” Entwistle reached out and gently placed his hands over John’s, which were still pressing dangerously hard against the glass he was cupping tightly. 

“You’re a better man than the rest of us,” he said gently. “When you go home to see her, in between tour stops or when you’ve got breaks from recording, tell her that. Tell her you’d quit in a heartbeat, and she’ll stay. It’s what all of the rest of our wives wanted to hear, but none of us were willing to say it.” 

The barkeep raised his voice and hollered out the thing everyone in the pub had been dreading: last call. Both Johns checked their watches, and saw that it was nearly 3:00am. 

“This has been nice, Deacon,” John smiled at his young counterpart. “But we should probably be heading back to our hotels soon. Don’t want anyone to worry about us more than they have to.” 

“Thanks again for wanting to meet with me,” John smiled, reaching out to shake Entwistle’s ridiculously large hand. “I’ve always wanted to see what ‘Thunderfingers’ was really like.” 

“And?” Entwistle challenged, keeping a straight face. “I’m overrated, aren’t I? Just a grouchy old bastard past his prime who keeps playing because it pays the bills?” 

“No,” John shook his head, slipping his coat over his shoulders. “A grouchy bastard, absolutely, but much better than I thought. A bit soft, really.” Entwistle laughed a high-pitched giggle, something John didn’t expect from a man with a voice as deep as his. 

“I’ll take that,” Entwistle smirked. “A soft bastard. Just don’t be telling anyone else; I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” He slapped a £100 note on the table, which the server would stare at with wide eyes when she came to retrieve their glasses a few minutes later – it more than covered their drinks and time in the pub. 

* * * * * 

Entwistle’s driver stopped in front of John’s hotel. Their evening out had been wonderful and strange, and above all, unexpected. Before he got out of the vehicle, though, John had one last thing to say. 

“You told me what you thought of the show, but not what you thought of my playing,” John said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m a grown man, I can take it.” A tiny smile played across the older bassist’s lips as he thought about what to say; he’d purposely neglected to comment on Queen’s bassist. 

“Well,” he began, pressing his lips together. “You’re a good bass player, but you should use a heavier bass.” When John frowned in confusion, Entwistle continued, a mischievous spark glinting in his eye as he spoke. “You should do some weight-lifting, too. You could be at least a foot taller, and at least 25 pounds heavier. Then, you’d be a great bass player.” John rolled his eyes and laughed, playfully punching Entwistle’s upper arm. 

“But to be serious, it was a pleasure to see you play,” the man said in earnest. “Next concert you play, turn up louder than that big-haired guitarist, and the rest of them will finally get to hear how brilliant you are.”


End file.
